Chapter 3 #2
Dayton parks the car in the driveway of a neglected home that I can’t believe Mom and Russell actually bought without telling us.
The front yard is an overgrown garden with palm trees, sweetgrass, hibiscus, and hydrangeas.
I can’t name the rest, but it once had lush landscaping before it was abandoned.
We both get out of the car and walk the narrow path, lined with broken rocks, toward the door.
The house is a faded wood siding, with chipped paint and some rotten pieces around the boarded-up windows.
The roof looks like it’ll blow off in the next tropical storm.
It has a nice shape, with a gable over the front porch and shutters on the double windows.
It’s two stories, and I’m sure the view from both is incredible.
The realtor is standing there in a pink pinstripe shirt and khaki shorts.
He lifts a hand to wave at us. I recognize him as one of Russell’s buddies he used to golf with on Sunday afternoons.
He’s a little shorter than my five-foot-three frame, making him look like a shrimp next to Dayton as we approach.
He reaches for my hand, his kind brown eyes softening as his hand warms mine. “My name is Frank Akana. I want to offer my condolences to you both. Your parents were some of my best friends. And no one was more deserving of this lovely home.” The corners of his eyes water.
I feel the moisture building behind my eyes. I nod, unable to speak. The grief is still fresh. It feels like a heavy weight on my chest. He squeezes my hand before releasing it and offering it out to Dayton. He has to look up almost a comical amount to meet his eyes.
“You, my friend, are a giant version of your father. Russell told me his son was tall, but you might need to duck under these old doorways.” He grins.
Dayton shakes his hand. “What year was the house built?”
I resist the urge to kick him in the shins. “Thank you, Mr. Akana, for showing us the house on such short notice. We were not actually aware they’d sold their home and bought this place.”
His eyes wrinkle with his smile as he turns to unlock the door.
“Yes, they wanted it to be a surprise. It was built in 1929. This property was an excellent investment. The studio in the back is ready for occupancy while construction goes on in the main house. The same family owned it for many years. The children squabbled about what to do with it for the last three before it finally went into foreclosure from lack of payment on the note and the taxes.”
He opens the door and leads us inside. The first thing we see is a foyer that has a sunroom feel because of all the windows.
To the right is a set of double French doors leading to a small office with damaged bookshelves.
It has an arched window overlooking the front yard and the street.
The next door is a half bath. The toilet has been removed, and half of the old tiles on the floor are busted up.
Right past that is a laundry room. There are no machines, just the plumbing and electric hookups.
It appears that the construction crew has already started gutting parts of the home. Some of the Sheetrock has been ripped out as well as tiles, light fixtures, and portions of the floor.
We pass by another small bedroom and the stairs before seeing the breathtaking view of the ocean out the wall of windows on the back of the house.
Sunlight pours in from the oversize windows on all three sides. To the left is a large kitchen and dining area—also gutted. Only the base cabinets remain, no sink or appliances. There’s a stunning stained-glass window with a lighthouse in it.
Toward the back of the house is a spacious living room. The ceiling is a gradual vault with wooden shiplap and hewn beams. The center of it looks around twelve feet high. Some of it is darkened from age and possibly mold.
I know nothing about home renovating, but I can tell this is a huge, expensive project.
The hardwood floors creak under my feet as I walk to the back wall of windows and take in the ocean view.
A subtle yet overwhelming feeling of peace settles over me.
A sailboat in the distance is all I can see before the blue stretch of endless Atlantic Ocean.
Palm trees in the backyard frame the sandy shore like a work of art.
I instantly know exactly why my mother chose this old house.
I push open the sliding glass door, immediately greeted by the gentle roar of the waves crashing against rocks and sand.
I don’t even realize that I’m crying until the salty breeze cools the wet tears on my cheeks.
It’s like I can feel her here, like her spirit is with me in this house.
I wrap my arms around myself and exhale.
“This was her dream,” I whisper.
It was always her dream to live by the beach, to wake up to the smell of roasted coffee beans and salt water.
A presence fills the space beside me, and my nostrils pick up on the scent of sandalwood and bourbon.
He exhales. “This place is going to sell for a fortune.”
Fucking. Asshole.